Tempus Incedit (Gangster Edition)
by The Showers in April
Summary: "Not every last muthafuckin rap endz happily. But up in a way, thatz mo' betta n' shit. Well shiiiit, it lets you know dat 'Tempus incedit' - Time marches on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. And there be a not a god damn thang we can do bout dat shit." (Fabina angst, cuz whoz ass don't ludd that?) (A rewritten spoof of my old one-shot Tempus Incedit)
**Okay! So remember a while ago, I posted an angst you Fabina one-shot called Tempus Incedit. Well, a few days ago, I found this hilarious site where it translates everything into gangster, and I put the one-shot through and I just had to share the results.**

 **if you want to see the real thing, it's on my page somewhere. But enjoy this hilarity, please**

4:00am across tha pond, n' dat thugged-out biiiatch can't chill.

9:00am on tha other shore, n' he unwillin ta rise from bed.

They was thankin tha same thang- Why?

They feelin tha same way- Lonely.

It aint nuthin but funky cuz these two lonely, dissin souls was once connected. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. Inseparable… One, even.

It aint nuthin but even funnier how tha fuck tha pair disconnected. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! This type'a shiznit happens all tha time. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Separated… Split up in two, practically.

But dat rap be a gangbangin' fucked up one indeed.

So, dear reader, peep n' feel fo' yourselves tha legit grief of ludd lost ta time, distance, and… well… Love...

At first, dat dunkadelic hoe thought dat biiiiatch was phat enough ta isolate her muthafuckin ass from dat place. Those playas yo yo. Him.

But, though she fought dat battle wit tha strength of a thousand men, when you've done cooked up a gangbangin' funky-ass bond as tightly as dat freaky freaky biatch had made herz wit dat place; dem people; him, dat invisible rope continues ta tug at you until even tha strongest must follow its pull.

So one day, dat thugged-out biiiatch called.

Bitch didn't call mah playass cellphone. No. That wouldn't do at all.

Bitch called doggy den itself.

Ring, ring, ring, rin- "Yo muthafucka, biatch? To whom is I spe-?"

Before tha biatch, tha biatch she remembered so fondly, could finish, she ended tha call wit tears up in her eyes n' breath comin short.

Too nuff memories. Put ya muthafuckin choppers up if ya feel dis! Put ya muthafuckin choppers up if ya feel dis muthafucka! Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch didn't find it ta be worth tha pain.

Dude looked all up in tha photograph on his wild lil' fuckin lil' dresser longingly.

There dat biiiiatch was. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Smiling. Frozen up in time.

Dude wondered if her big-ass booty still smiled like dat n' like dis n' like dat y'all.

Dude wanted ta believe her dope ass done done did.

Da only playa dat was left ta comfort his thugged-out ass n' KNOW tha ache of a lost love, was beginnin ta succumb ta her own pain of a gangbangin' fucked up ass.

A heartbreak dat freaky freaky biatch had given upon her muthafuckin ass yo. Dude didn't KNOW dis shit. Why would mah playas do dat ta theyselves?

Finally, tha only thug dat understood what tha fuck da thug was feelin was tha one whoz ass dat schmoooove muthafucka had peeped sobbin her cracked ass up in tha kitchen when dat shiznit was her turn ta cut vegetables.

Bitch had fucked wit her muthafuckin ass.

Dude turned away, feelin wretched, hand ta his cold-ass thugged-out lil' pocket.

Dude felt tha precious item up in it, a locket, tha only thang dat schmoooove muthafucka had left of his wild lil' fuckin ludd yo yo. His only love.

Dude knew dat biiiiatch was stayin away ta save dem wild-ass muthafuckas. To save his crazy-ass muthafuckin ass.

But it wasn't fair.

So, one day, his schmoooove ass called… again.

Dude didn't be thinkin she'd answer.

Dude was right. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch didn't.

Dude received tha voicemail.

"Hi! You've reached tha inbox of mah cell! Leave a message, n' I be bout ta git back ta ya' as soon as I can!"

Dude smiled a small, watery smile at her cheery voice.

It reminded his thugged-out ass of a cold-ass lil cold lil' woo wop dat had been on his cold-ass thugged-out lil' playlist fo' a long-ass time yo yo, but had stopped listenin ta fo' some reason. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz fo' realz. And dat schmoooove muthafucka had only just listened ta it again n' again n' again n' again n' again n' again n' again n' again n' again ta find da perved-out muthafucka still loved tha song.

Dude also chuckled all up in tha thought of her callin his thugged-out ass back. But a cold-ass lil cold-ass lil chuckle was not what tha fuck came out.

No. Quite tha opposite.

Beep, went tha tone yo. Dude fuckin started his crazy-ass message.

"…Nina…" da thug whispered tha fuck into his smartphonez microphone. "Please… I don't wanna move on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Please. We need you- I need you, biatch. Mo' than eva playa! Just… please… Call me back, aiiight?"

And then dat schmoooove muthafucka hung up, tossed his beeper on his cold-ass tidy bed on, on his cold-ass tidy side of his shared room, n' busted a gangbangin' fucked up ludd cold lil' woo wop ta no muthafucka up in particular. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. To her, like.

Durin this, he let his crazy-ass mind wander.

Maybe his schmoooove ass could do all dis bullshit. Maybe his schmoooove ass could let go n' continue ta live.

His headmasta had once holla'd at his wild lil' playa once all dem muthafuckin muthafuckin years back, tha playa dat now never kicked it wit tha eye of her freak, whoz ass had then repeated tha message ta his thugged-out ass not all dem minutes before.

" 'Tempus incedit' 'Time marches on' ," dat freaky freaky biatch had quoted, chillin across from his thugged-out ass all up in tha table, auburn afro restin delicately on her shoulders.

It did indeed. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! And if time marched his thugged-out ass back ta his Chosen One, then march on. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz fo' realz. And if it continued ta march away from her, let it be done.

Either way, he'd be aiiight.

Bitch gots his crazy-ass message. But dat thugged-out biiiatch couldn't brang her muthafuckin ass ta callback.

Maybe one dizzle she'd find tha courage.

But dat shiznit was not dat day.

And dat biiiiatch wondered if it would eva come...

Da muthafuckin muthafuckin years had since passed since tha dizzle her big-ass booty holla'd peace up n' tha dizzle he knew dat freaky freaky biatch had ta bounce tha fuck out.

Things had chizzled a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shitload up in society, n' up in tha ghetto yo yo, but ta dem hoes else, her big-ass booty seemed untouched.

Timeless.

Bitch still waited fo' tha dizzle dat biiiiatch would respond ta dat message- tha last message dat schmoooove muthafucka had eva busted her muthafuckin ass.

Bitch hoped dat tha phrase "It aint nuthin but never too late," still applied fo' almost 70 muthafuckin muthafuckin years later.

Da worrisome part of her thang was dat thugged-out biiiatch couldn't even be shizzle if da perved-out muthafucka still lived up in England. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Or if da thug was even still living.

Bitch didn't call. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch couldn't. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch did not know whoz ass dat thugged-out biiiatch could possibly call.

So instead, da hoe looted a ticket fo' a gangbangin' flight.

And when she arrived up in tha United Mackdaddydom, da hoe fuckin started her search.

And fo' a year, she gots nowhere.

Bitch was gettin oldschool now- almost 90.

Bitch was gettin chillaxed like a muthafucka.

But not chilly tired.

Da other kind.

Da kind of chillaxed when yo' body begins ta realize dat it can't function tha way a cold-ass lil cold-ass lil child's, or even a lil' adultz do.

Da chillaxed when it signals tha beginnin of tha end.

One day, as dat biiiiatch was beginnin ta lose all hope of findin his thugged-out ass or mah playas dat biiiiatch was lookin for, dat thugged-out biiiatch caught sight of a funky-ass biatch, dressed all up in black, chillin on a gangbangin' funky-ass bus stop bench.

Da biatch, whoz ass looked round her age, 90 give or take, was sobbin tha fuck into her hands.

Bitch went over ta tha oldschool biatch, n' sat beside her muthafuckin ass.

Bein tha kind, n' not ta mention naturally curious, thug dat biiiiatch was, she axed up in a gentle tone,

"What eva is tha matter?"

Da biatch raised her head ta peep her muthafuckin ass.

With a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shaky hand, tha oldschool biatch wiped her eyes and, up in a tremblin voice, replied,

"M-My fuckin fuckin dopest playa, n' th-the last of m-my schoolmates has j-just took a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirt nap recently. Th-Da funeral was t-todizzle, n' I-" tha biatch could not finish fo' another round of tears gripped her n' busted her off down stream.

Bitch comforted her by placin her own hand on tha biatchz arm.

"Th-Nuff props," tha biatch hiccuped. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Biatch calmed her muthafuckin ass before continuing. "I don't give a gangbangin' fuck bout ta cry like a muthafucka. I do mah dopest ta stay tha fuck away from it yo yo, but sometimes it just comes drippin up in straight-up wack thangs. Do you know what tha fuck I mean?"

Bitch did know.

"I understand. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I be straight-up sorry fo' yo' loss."

Da oldschool biatch waved her hand at her muthafuckin ass.

"Don't shiznit yo ass wit mah way of grieving. I knew it would happen soon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch was failin fo' a long-ass time… But dat biiiiatch was mah dopest playa… It aint nuthin but fucked up dat I had ta outlive mah housemates- pardon, ex-housemates. I had hoped dat I would git ta be wit dem ta tha straight-up end."

Da biatch paused n' took a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirty-ass shaky breath n' fiddled wit tha thick, grey bun perched on her head.

"But I be bout ta be aiiight. I be bout ta peep dem all again n' again n' again n' again n' again n' again n' again n' again n' again soon enough cause I gots dem finger-lickin' chickens wit tha siz-auce fo' realz fo' realz. At least, thatz what tha fuck tha deacon say."

Bitch nodded. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "I understand. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! My fuckin fuckin own ex-housemates probably don't even know I be still kickin dat shit."

Bitch suddenly realized dat freaky freaky biatch hadn't introduced her muthafuckin ass.

"Oh! Silly me biaaatch! I be Nina. Nina Martin. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Yo ass probably gathered from mah old, Americ-"

"Nina, biatch? Nina Martin…?"

"Yes…"

"Da Chosen One, Nina Martin?!"

Her old, rickety jaw dropped.

"How tha fuck do you-?"

"It aint nuthin but mah dirty ass. Me. Patricia Miller-Sw- Well, I suppose you gonna know me as Williamson yo yo, but itz me biaaatch! Afta all these years…" tha biatch trailed off, a gangbangin' freshly smoked up light comin back tha fuck into her blotchy, bloodshot eyes.

Bitch felt her ass leap a lil' bit n' a smile adorn her soft, wrinkled face

.

"It aint nuthin but been far too long! What have you been bustin wit yo' game since…" dat dunkadelic hoe trailed off, lookin round fo' a moment ta make shizzle no one was listening, before coverin her right eye n' whisperin up in a soft, almost longin tone, "Sibuna?"

And so tha conversation fuckin started.

To mah playas passin by, it looked like two oldschool dem hoes havin a cold-ass lil cold-ass lil chat bout suttin' simple. Perhaps tha weather?

But no. These two oldschool dem hoes was travelin all up in time.

Memories swallowed dem whole n' refused ta spit dem out.

Dat shiznit was as if they was back up in they high school years, relivin tha adventure, tha fun, tha danger, tha happiness, tha sadness, tha fear- all of dat shiznit son!

Dat shiznit was only when her oldschool playaz grill clouded again, dat she knew dat shiznit was time ta come back ta reality.

"Nina… there be a suttin' I need ta rap , biatch. Yo ass won't like it fo' realz fo' realz. At all."

"It aint nuthin but bout Fabian, aint it?" she asked, knowin all too well it done done did.

Patricia nodded. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "His funeral was last August… I be soopa-doopa sorry bout dat bullshit yo. Dude took a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirt nap peacefully up in his chill."

Bitch took a thugged-out deep breath. "Dude lived a long-ass game fo' realz fo' realz. And when da thug was up in mine, dat shiznit was blissful naaahhmean, biatch? No one could ask fo' more."

Bitch paused fo' a moment, hesitant.

"Whoz funeral was todizzle?"

Patricia looked down at her feet, which was clad up in pointy, black shoes.

"Joy's."

Bitch noted dat her oldschool playa n' schoolmate was much mo' mature than dat freaky freaky biatch had been when she last saw her n' shit. Of course, physically dat shiznit was inevitable… but wackly like a muthafucka.

Dat shiznit was strange ta feel a lil' bit of pride fo' tha forma "bad girl". But her dope ass done done did.

"Joy… Oh, Joy… Patricia, I be sorry as a muthafucka bout dat bullshit."

Patricia holla'd not a god damn thang fo' a while. Then her big-ass booty spoke.

"Do you wanna peep his wild lil' freakadelic grave?"

"Yes yes y'all, yeaaaa y'all."

And so tha two went ta tha deal where her first n' last ludd was laid ta rest.

It turned up dat schmoooove muthafucka had gotten gangbangin a funky-ass biatch named Linn, as Patricia had holla'd at her on tha fuckin' down-lowly, respectfully, almost.

Bitch was apparently a ghettofab, mousey scholar dat schmoooove muthafucka had kicked it wit up in his ballin' year of college.

They had had one lil pimp named Jizzy whoz ass was all grown up now, and, strangely, gangbangin tha Miller-Sweetz own child, Rose.

Dude had done as she axed n' moved on.

But still dat biiiiatch was sad.

Bitch had secretly hoped dat maybe dat schmoooove muthafucka had done what tha fuck dat freaky freaky biatch had done:

Waited.

But dat biiiiatch was foolish ta be thinkin dat schmoooove muthafucka had.

Two months later, Patricia was admitted ta tha hospitizzle fo' a ass attack.

Three months afta that, Patricia took a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirt nap.

And finally, a year later, she, Nina Martin, took a gangbangin' finger-lickin' dirt nap peacefully up in her chill, her mind, body, n' ass all fixated on one place;

Home.

So, you see, not every last muthafuckin last muthafuckin rap endz happily. But up in a way, thatz betta than havin a slick ending.

It lets you know dat "Tempus incedit" - Time marches on.

And there be a not a god damn thang we can do bout dat shit.


End file.
